These Things Remain
by Sir Robot
Summary: January, 1950. His de facto capital is Bonn, but Germany can't seem to leave West Berlin. Tie-in with 'Soul to Take'. One-shot, though I might continue it.


'_**And now these three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the strongest of these is love.' **_** 1 Corinthians 13:13**

* * *

"Sir…."

Germany's assistant is staring at him, eyebrows angling ever so slightly up.

"….Sir?" his assistant tries again but receives no answer from his nation's rigid back.

Even though Germany cannot see him, he knows that look. Expectant. Waiting. Worrisome. He can hear that look in his assistant's tremulous voice.

His assistant, clearing his throat, tries for a third time to get his nation's attention.

Germany refuses to turn.

Germany's assistant clutches his ledger tightly by his side, mustering strength, and decides press on, words threatening to tumble out of his mouth in a jumble, but at the last minute he manages to catch his tongue. A halting speech follows: "Herr A-Adenauer. Requests you join him. I-in Bonn."

Germany, who until this time has been staring out of his office window still and stoic, tilts his head just so. His assistant is unsure whether the tilt is the cause of an involuntary twitch from Germany holding his head in such a manner for so long or if he has managed to rouse his nation out of some kind of stupor. Whatever the reason, the assistant cannot help but flinch at that tiny movement.

He decides it must be the latter and continues in the same hesitant pattern. "H-he offers. His gratitude. For – to – you. For staying and helping. During the blockade. But now he r-requests you. That you join him. In…in your new capital," the assistant finishes lamely. His eyes fall back down to the ledger – his anchor – held fast to his side, chaining him to this office. Oh how he wishes he could split that chain and float away. A wish that doubles when his nation finally speaks.

"Does he?" Germany's rumbling voice is light, conversational, but the hint of sarcasm spells disaster. His assistant's stomach clenches.

"Apparently declining his offer the first nine times," Germany continues, voice gradually rising, "did not get the message through. Maybe the tenth 'no' will clue him in!" Germany finishes with a shout, slamming his fist on the window ledge. His assistant jumps, the ledger nearly tumbling from his grasp, but he manages to catch it in time. He clears his throat nervously in an effort to cover his clumsiness, even though Germany's back is still to him.

Germany heaves a sigh, rubs a hand over his face. _I'm not angry with you,_ Germany tells his assistant, though only in his mind. He cannot say it aloud. The mental apology, and its accompanying guilt, is already tiring him. Despite his statement to the contrary, he debates relenting, giving up on this pointless vigil. A quiet voice calls it selfish. He hushes it with a fist clench. Red knuckles glow white and his decision is solidified once again.

Germany turns his head, a pale profile against the grey window, his voice quiet yet firm. "Send my apologies. I'm not going to Bonn. I trust Adenauer. If he needs me for anything, he can phone. I will not leave Berlin." _Not until I have my brother back_ is left unsaid, but Germany's assistant can hear it in the ringing silence that follows. Can see it in the tired blue eyes.

Germany's assistant presses his lips into a tight, understanding line. With a quick bob of the head, he sees himself out, lingering just for a moment by the door, wanting a final glimpse of the man he knows he will never see again, but Germany is already turning back to the window.

His assistant shuts the door, and with the click of the latch, Germany feels the isolation settle around him. He is an island in a sea of red, surrounded by Russia's encroachment. _But if Gilbert were to be freed,_ he thinks (and bites his cheek to keep from laughing at the absurd thought), _the first place he'd come would be home._

His throat is constricting. He can hardly breathe. It is too hot in his office.

Germany throws open the window against the cold and gulps in the bitter air as the tears mingle with snowflakes and freeze on his cheeks.

It is an absurd thought, the idea his brother could come back to him. America and England encourage him to move on, to follow their example. But capitalism can only dazzle for so long until the unbidden image of a man with shockingly white hair and a crooked grin creeps back in. And Germany holds onto this image and the thought of his returned brother as he stares down at the slowly recovering wreck that _was_ his capital – at the rubble and barbed wire and soldiers that do not speak his language.

He could not know, at that exact moment, in a hastily built bloc of tenement apartments in the Eastern Zone, a man with a crooked grin and stark white hair is sitting in front of his open window, drinking in the rush of the cold refreshing air of his new capital.

* * *

_**A/N**__ Sooooo, this was a tie-into my multi-chapter piece 'Soul to Take' (shameless plugging is shameless). This was originally intended as a one-shot/experiment, but I might actually continue it. Those of you who know me, of course, know not to hold your breath. My updating tends to be. Very. Slow. I hope you enjoyed it and feel free to let me know what you think._


End file.
